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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23647414">Black Tea</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenics/pseuds/Arsenics'>Arsenics</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Beatles (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 21:53:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,622</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23647414</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenics/pseuds/Arsenics</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul wishes the kitchen was just a tad bit bigger.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>John Lennon/Paul McCartney</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>87</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Black Tea</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The kitchen inside 20 Forthlin Road is small. Smaller than Arnold Grove’s, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>especially </span>
  </em>
  <span>smaller than Mendips’ —  but Paul is used to it. He’s lived in this same house for as long as he can remember and it’s all he’s ever known, so that’s good enough for him, most of the time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But when John’s around, well… Paul wishes the kitchen was just a tad bit bigger.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“What kind of tea is that?” John asks one afternoon. It’s a silly question, considering the tea packets are clearly labeled right on the counter, but Paul can’t really process anything at the moment — they’re in the kitchen and John is pressed against Paul’s back, overlooking his shoulder, and the warmth of John’s body combined with the steam from the kettle is enough to make Paul’s face flush.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, just —” Paul fumbles with the teacups in his hands. “Black tea. Nothing special today.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, well,” John moves himself even closer to Paul, his head almost resting on Paul’s shoulder. “That’s a shame, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose so,” Paul replies and his mind is focused on nothing but John’s hot breath puffing onto his neck. John is always messing with him like this, sometimes grabbing his waist like he would a woman’s and pulling him right up so their faces would be inches apart, and other times just calling him ‘Paulie’ and ordering him to go make a butty like a housewife.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Paul is fine with this — it’s just fun and games.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a second, John backs away and slouches himself onto one of the chairs in the main room, leaving Paul awkwardly hunched over the stove. Though he’s gone, John’s presence still seems to linger behind Paul and he realises his face is </span>
  <em>
    <span>still </span>
  </em>
  <span>warm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul doesn’t really know why John likes to play those types of ‘games’, knowing him to be the type to freak out even at the mention of the word ‘queer’ in his direction — but again, Paul doesn’t mind. As long as he’s still got a friend and guitar partner, everything’s all right. Besides, with his hotheadedness, it makes Paul feel big — like he’s playing with a tiger who’ll tear anyone’s head off but his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he likes feeling John constantly touching him, even if it’s only a joke, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The kettle whistles and Paul quickly pours out two cups for himself and John, careful to put an equal amount in both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christ, the service here is shit,” John says, taking the cup. “Twenty minutes for a cuppa and the hostess isn’t even a looker. You’ll be hearing from your manager, Paul.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My apologies, your highness.” Paul grins. “I’ll make sure to tell the water to boil itself a bit faster next time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sit in silence for a moment, drinking, until John speaks again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Paul, you wouldn’t happen to have any jam in the refrigerator, would you?” he sneers, looking up. “I’m famished.” If it weren’t for the bit, John’s fake posh accent would be enough to make Paul burst into a laughing fit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s funny, Dad actually went and bought some yesterday,” Paul says, trying his hardest not to grin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perfect. Get up and make me a toast, would you? For this beat lad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul lets out an over-exaggerated sigh and heads back into the kitchen, grabbing the bag of square bread. He gets the jam from the refrigerator and, right as he’s about to grab a butter knife, he hears John shout.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul heads back into the room to find an upright John holding an empty teacup, staring at the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you do?” Paul asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I spilled the tea, Paul. Look,” John points at the dark stain on the carpet. He’s talking with a flat tone, throwing out any hope that it was accidental.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I have eyes.” Paul sighs (genuinely, this time) and grabs a towel that’s folded on the mantel. “Clean it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But Paul, I don’t want to. I’m tired,” John drawls. “And I spilled some on my shirt, too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, well, take it off and I’ll scrub it for you. But you’re getting that stain off the carpet or you’ll never step foot in the McCartney Gourmet Diner ever again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aye, it’s not like I’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to. Can’t even serve a damn toast for me,” John says and he takes the towel, pulling a stupid pout and bending down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How did you even spill this?” Paul asks (in vain, undoubtedly — learned a long time ago that no matter how badly you want it, you’ll never get a straight answer from John).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me mouth moved, that’s all.” John tosses the towel back at Paul’s face. “Likes to get around, that little guy — can’t keep himself still.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” Paul watches with the towel in his hand as John begins to unfasten his shirt front, taking about thirty years for each button, and once again Paul feels his face begin to warm up. He doesn’t know why the idea of John undressing in front of him is so entrancing (doesn’t want to find out, either) and it’s not too bad until John looks up at him, directly into his eyes, and Paul feels himself go lightheaded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mind is condensed into incoherent thought while John’s kneeled on the floor, unbuttoning his shirt, focused right on Paul’s eyes, and suddenly the stain that was once so upsetting is completely erased from all consciousness. Paul can’t speak, wouldn’t dare to, considering what’s going on inside of him, and John is also completely silent, ruining any chance of Paul regaining his sensibility.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John finally reaches the last button when he looks away. Pulling off the sleeves, he takes the shirt off and hands it to Paul, who’s still standing in a trance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not Hepburn, you know. Stop staring and take the shirt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, uh, right.” Paul shakes his head and brings the white button-up over to the kitchen sink, where he turns on the faucet and waits for the hot water. Trying his hardest to ignore the shirtless John standing in his living room, he scans the cloth, looking for any sign of tea, when he notices a small brown patch near the sleeve.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John, this stain is nothing,” Paul says, holding up the shirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aye, give us it back, then,” he replies. “I’ll spill some more on it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul ignores him and goes back to the sink, lowering the sleeve into the stream of water. He can’t stop thinking about what just happened — even though nothing </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>happened, did it? It must’ve all been in Paul’s head, the tension between him and John just then, the way he stared up at Paul with a fervor that he’s only ever witnessed towards Cynthia… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Paul is about to scrub soap onto the shirt when he hears John’s unmistakable footsteps coming closer and closer into the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m almost done, don’t worry,” Paul says calmly (though he’s everything </span>
  <em>
    <span>but</span>
  </em>
  <span> calm). He senses John coming up behind him and freezes, unsure of why he’s so silent, why he isn’t nagging Paul to wash faster like he would usually do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul’s question is answered immediately, though, when he feels John’s familiar steady hands lightly grip onto the crest of his hips. Paul drops John’s shirt into the sink and suddenly his mind has gone fuzzy again — he tries to think of something, </span>
  <em>
    <span>say </span>
  </em>
  <span>something, but the only thing registering is the warmth of John’s chest, the way he’s pressed so closely onto Paul’s back, the way his mouth is wavering over his neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John,” Paul says breathily, unable to muster anything else. He stays frozen in place while John holds him still, his firm but gentle grip making Paul almost delirious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where’s Mike?” John asks in a low voice, directly into Paul’s ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, he’s at, you know,” Paul falters. “The pictures, I think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And Jim?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Grapes, probably.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John seems to nod but Paul can’t really be sure, he’s too focused on what John is doing, what he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>going </span>
  </em>
  <span>to do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But when Paul feels John’s lips softly meet his neck, he finds that he’s actually not as surprised as he should be. Flustered, yes — but not surprised. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John kisses him in the same spot once more and pauses. “God, turn around, will you?” he says, voice almost sounding exasperated if it weren’t for the slight hint of a smile Paul notices at the end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, Paul does what he’s told and turns, leaning his back on the edge of the sink. The sight he’s met with almost knocks him out cold: a topless, slightly rosy-cheeked John that’s staring straight into his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John instantly leans closer to Paul, pressing their lower halves together, and Paul lets out a small sound. He knows what’s happening and, quite frankly, is surprised that it didn’t happen sooner — all of those ‘jokes’ with John obviously had those underlying slivers that Paul was too afraid to acknowledge. But now they’re all irrelevant, the jokes, because this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>real.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>John finally presses his lips onto Paul’s with an ardor that made him feel as if he were melting. One hand is cupping Paul’s face and the other is making its way towards the buckle of his belt, unskillfully trying to unfasten it, and Paul giggles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christ, Paul, who are you this locked up for?” he asks, pausing the kissing and focusing on Paul’s pants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The belt is finally unbuckled and Paul puts his hand on John’s chest. “Hold on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stepping back, John raises an eyebrow. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can we —” Paul nods at the stairway. “Can we go upstairs?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, you’re not as daft as you look.” John grabs Paul’s hand and starts towards the bedroom. “But your diner service is still crap.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>comments and criticisms are appreciated =)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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